Broken Circle; Tarot and Treachery

[Hellis]

~I---Welcome To Los Angeles---I~

Its another day of sweltering day of heat in Los Angeles. The streets are crowded with people going about their daily lives. But for those with the gift, with knack for the supernatural, a great number of magical individuals are mingling with the masses. Oracles, mages, wizards and witches. Seemingly normal people that hide a great arsenal of power beyond human understanding.



The place for your meeting is the Red Room Barista. Thats right, all of your mysterious magical needs are tended to in a old speak easy turned coffee shop. Its walls remind you of a old castle dungeon with its massive stone and sparse interior. The air smells of old smoked meat and varius beverages, most of them alcoholic. The bar itself stocked full and tended to by three very pleasant looking women, each of them a magician as well. As for the clientele, there are more people here then ever, despite the entire place being closed off for the main

You have all come to this specific place for a very special reason. You share the visions of something great and terrible. Haunting nightmares have rocked even the most jagged of you out of your sleep. There is a sense of dread in the air as you await the meeting to start.

Most of the people summoned appear to be nobodies, people you never heard off. People much like yourself. Some of them are hard hitters however. People like the Baron, a white clad, top hat wearing black man. He does the vodoo, and while there are literally hundreds of people claiming to be the one and only Baron Samedi, nobody is more convincing then him.

Then there was madam Gwendolyn, the only druid in L.A worth name dropping. Her eyes the colour of light gray steel and they scanned to room relentlessly. She sat by the Barons table along with another, a man dressed entirely in black, aside from a red tie and red shades. His hair was slicked back and his smile revealed several jagged canines, people refer to him Hon-Gji The Maw. He is a necromancer of quite the large amount fame. The three of them are the council representatives for the evening.

~I--- Meeting at the Barista ---I~

You have come here due to a summon that found itself in your hands by different means. Some of your have gotten mails, someone may have gotten it by mouth or phone. Some of you have gotten the summon trough magic means. You know everyone in this room has had the same vision as you. All have seen the giant. There is endless whispering about and lot of unusual faces that rarely converse in the same place at one given time. You may chose to mingle, talk to the many denizens of L.As magic community. Or you may choose to simply survey, maybe have a drink.
--------
Some points of interest.
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Unknown Tarot Mage: You have no idea who this man is. He seems to be sitting alone, reading his cards. Whenever you look his way however, he smiles.* (If you ask him your fortune. PM me and I will give you the reading. You may incorperate it as you please. Only control the cards in that case, not the character.)

The bar; The barkeeps are Names Rosita, Evelyn and Mags respectively. Each of them is a have a well known contract with the Queen of Thorns. Her influence is quite obvious what with the crowns of roses they wear. Each also have an air of unnatural beauty about them as well. The three of them have more then enough power to murder you horribly. But other then that they are very outspoken and open minded, and will most likely entertain you with a conversation.

Baron,Hon-Gji and Gwendelyn are givin the rest of the room the cold shoulder and approaching them seems utterly unwise. They seem to be discussing amongst themselves at the moment, sitting by a table that is being catered to exclusively. They do not seem like they wish to be disturbed.

[custoscustodum]

It wasn’t the first time that Daniel Caine had been to Los Angeles. There was no shortage of influential people in the city, most of whom had committed many an egregious sin, and some of whom were willing to donate large sums of money to the right people to ensure the sanctity of their immortal souls. One man in particular came to mind: a self-important film producer, who had had an especially perverse sexual appetite and who, though it was not a necessary part of the rite, had insisted on telling the sin-eater about every last one of his offending deeds in grotesque detail, with what could only have been construed as smug enjoyment. The memory evoked powerful pangs of guilt in Daniel, guilt for things he’d never done, but which nonetheless now wore heavily on his soul. Still, he thought to himself, that was then; things were different now. He swallowed loudly and turned his attention back to the room.

Perhaps the memory had brought an odd expression to his face, for he caught someone looking at him strangely; perhaps he just looked a little strange; or perhaps it was merely his imagination. Just in case, he gave the staring individual a frosty glare, before moving away from the entrance of coffee shop.

There were more people present than he’d expected. Many more. Truth be told, his ego was slightly damaged by the numbers: it wasn’t that he thought he was big business in the magical world – he knew he was anything but – and he’d gleaned from the summons, which he’d received via a very intrusive telepathic voice some days previously, that he wouldn’t be the only one there. Nonetheless, he’d been expecting something more, well, exclusive; in particular he’d been expecting there to be fewer general magical practitioners and more people from the circles he used to move in (and, for this reason, he had very nearly decided not to come), but he came to the conclusion that he’d mistakenly placed too much emphasis on the identification of the dreamer as a sinner.

A shudder ran down his spine as the dream tried to worm its way to the forefront of his conscious mind, and Daniel decided that he needed a distraction to squeeze it back down into the depths of his unconscious, where it could not disturb him quite so much. Nothing of great importance seemed to be happening any time soon, so he began to pick his way through the assembled people towards the bar, where the dual lures of praeternaturally beautiful women and naturally distilled liquor would surely be able to take his mind off anything.

On his way, he caught sight of the Baron’s table. The Baron himself he’d heard of, and the man he that could only be Hon-Gji had been mentioned to him when he’d needed a necromancer for a rite, but in the end he’d found one before trying to track him down. The woman at the table he didn’t recognise, but it was obvious she must be someone fairly serious to be in such company. He briefly wondered what they were discussing, before remembering that he had more important things to deal with at that moment.

When he managed to get to the bar, the sin-eater caught the nearest tender’s eye.

“I’ll have a double gin, no tonic, no ice, yes lemon. Oh, and anything but Gordon’s,” Daniel said drily, his clipped tones cutting through the background noise like a lemon slicer. “Please,” he added rather perfunctorily, his expression remaining sombre, though this was in fact less due to his natural aloofness, and more in order to mask a growing sense of anxiety, even fear, and maybe just a hint of nervous excitement.

"Can I smoke in here?" he asked, with a trace of uncharacteristic optimism.

[inDefiance]

The bells jangled softly above her, interrupting the sleepy drone of the air-conditioner. Answering the tinkling of the bells were the clicking and shimmering sound of the bird skull rattles at her boots. Pigeons, sparrows, crows, all picked clean and wide eyed they danced at her laces, calling out to spirits with each footstep that she was here. A frayed white and black striped fingerless glove reached out and traced the tops of the bags of chips as she passed; something about the crinkling sound they made eased her and allowed her aura to state that she meant no harm. To others in the store, suspicious eyes upon the powder blue haired woman would stare at her, contradicting that aura as she twisted the 'OPEN' sign one-eighty degrees and turned the latch on the lock. Metal scraped upon metal and with a dead click, the door would not open for any other witnesses lest they wish to graduate from witness status to that of victim.

But there were no others in the convenience store; none in mortal body at any rate. Rosalie had waited until it was all clear before moving in. And so in front of the lone clerk she stood and slow smouldering blue-eyed gaze did she rest upon the young woman.

'I hope this is what you really want, Seeker...' she said aloud the sound of her raspy voice garbled in an incoherent jumble; the words strung together akin to the speech of one who speaks out in their sleep. But the words were not meant for the clerk, Rosalie spoke them into the air to an unseen listener.

The clerk, a brunette barely out of her teens and a tad shorter than Rosi, continued to pencil away upon a sheet with rows and columns without so much as batting an eye at the blue-haired stranger.

“Two packs of Winstons... cheaper if you buy two, right?”

“Don't worry, hun,” said the clerk and reached below the counter and gently slapped the soft tops onto the glass surface, “it's on the house.”

“Thanks,” Rosi said as she unzipped her sling pack and placed the already opened packs of cigarettes inside and pulled an item wrapped up in red and black tissue papers, dried herbs and flowers were strung along the twine, “and here, I hope you know who this came from... don't open it, unless you want it to fuck you up.”

The clerk pencilled in something else without looking up then reached for the item. The moment before she touched the gift, a deep-seated thick hush befell the convenience store. A bargain was to be fulfilled, and the exchange, the moment of making the pact always felt like this to Rosi, almost sending her to the Threshold. Thin wispy tendrils danced for the pair, darkening the room just a bit.

'In name of Vraghal, I take this.' said the clerk in that murmuring dreamy voiced speak.

' Seeker The Owl and another named Keeawa, are freed.' said Rosalie in return.

Not another word was spoken as the room brightened once again and the wispy strands dissipated. This really was not the proper building to make such an exhange, however, the earth upon which the building was created was just right.

The clerk looked up and leaned in towards Rosi ever so slightly. She blinked and in place of chestnut coloured eyes, flashing, shifting draconic eyes, oranged and vertically slit, stared back at the leather jacketed wearing Spirit Catcher. A hint of a smile accentuated the intense threat of nasty things to befall one of Rosalie's Three and its vessel: Rosalie herself.

Rosalie blinked and amber eyes screaming of the moon flashed back at the clerk. “Try it, reptile. See what happens if you bring it out here upon the sacred soil this place. I fuckin' dare you...”

A moment of thick, wet tension held between them, then the clerk's eyes returned to normal and settled back into her normal pose, pencilling numbers upon the spreadsheet on her clipboard. “Another place, another time then. Let that She-Wolf Grinder know that as long as she is in this territory, she will not rest easy. We're coming for her...”

“Oh she hears you, vessel,” and a deeper, rough and wild tone carried upon her next words, “and she says: 'Bring it, bitch...'”


The bells jangled softly above her, cutting the tension in the room as she exited, restoring the space back to normal; a world mundane where the sleepy drone of an air-conditioner was heard and accepted if only to further allow mortals in the waking world another distraction and to strengthen mortal denial of the other worlds.

After the door swung close behind her, Rosi bent down low and picked up that which she had placed upon the single step leading into the store: a small cedar plank with several etchings upon its bark. A quick brush against her dark denim pant leg before inhaling deep the oh-so-lovely LA air, then she puckered her lips and blew gently upon it. Upon the wings of an Owl unseen, the motes that coated the cedar flew towards a suitable person; one that was meant to see past the mortal world and in past the Threshold. The one they needed to rip something bad out of their body. And hopefully make an ally here in the city of Angels. Fuck's sake did Rosi ever need one here.

---

The vision was undeniable but thankfully it was a dream never meant to be touched nor interpreted by her. And regardless of it what it was meant to be, a show of a one eyed behemoth engulfing her entire mindscape, it had seared Weaver with its presence, burning a single leg of the Spider that walked with her in dreams. This was not a vision that was meant for her alone, did Weaver tell her. And so deeper into the Dreamworld did Weaver take her and, as she travelled along the west coast into America, it was on a beach in Oregon when they finally received and interpreted the invite to the place of power where they must convene with others of their ilk.

And so here she was at the literal threshold of the point of no return. Rosalie Rouge and her Three: Grinder, Seeker and Weaver entered this Red Room Barista without a single chance to look back.

She was no one here. And so all her fetishes, she had placed into her sling pack so as to not boast that she was here, let alone allow those others that may or not align with her spirits that 'She-Who-Walks-With-Three' was amongst them. She was no one here and Rosi was happy to keep it that way.

Rosalie toyed with her labret piercing that lay off-centre to the left of her mouth as she eyed the bar, then quickly looked away. She had to stave off the temptation, the all-consuming temptation, to down some liquid gold goodness; it was much harder to speak with her Three when intoxicated. She had been clean and sober for almost seven years now and oh how easy it would be to just get trashed in here. She remembered that a drink could put one at ease.

That and the lady Druid, Gwendolyn was here. She had never met her in person, however, when the spirits that walk with you are animals, and even as a shaman, the name Gwendollyn was one that you should know when dealing in bargains with nature spirits and the like. To Rosalie Rouge, the smoky-eyed woman was something like a celebrity to her and a stiff drink would take off the edge of her girlish desire to rush over and gush and giggle a hasty introduction to the lady Druid.

But regardless of the dancing, squealing desire in those blue eyes, Rosalie just sat upon a lone stool somewhere between the table of the 'big three' and the front entrance. She crossed her legs after fishing out some things from her pockets. The familiar clink, click and whoosh sound of a Zippo opening and igniting flame came from her table as she leaned into the flickering orange fire in her hands. The cigarette now lit, she flicked her Zippo closed and took a deep inhale, listening to the hubbub of the gathering intermingle with the sounds of the excited chaos of that which spoke from beyond the mortal world here.

A long flowing plume of white smoke did she exhale into the air, aiming toward the ceiling. And at the same time she looked at her table, a man at the bar, a gent with a strange English accent, had asked if he was permitted to smoke in here and she noticed that there were no ashtrays laid out. Quickly yet rather clumsily, she ashed out her cigarette on the bottom of her combat boot. A heartbeat later, the black fleece of her hoodie was drawn low over her head, blue eyes low and pink cheeks heated.

'Yeah, I know... I'm supposed to be no one here... now shut up you three...'

[Hellis]

A sin eater, A shaman and Drunk enters a bar. Its like the start of the most outragous movie. And these three as just nobodies in a sea of magicians and practisioners. While the magic community was splintered, fractioned and smaller then this gathering would. The shamans entrence had roused the attention of fe of her kin. The Three were known to some, most of them shapeshifters themselves. Terretorial creatues to be sure. The Sin eater would enoke a whole lot more reacton, had the people known exactly what they were in the midsts off. Both entrences had be lowkey, meant not to draw attention.

The one bartender not already occupied was Rosita. Oldest of the three, her hair fell in thick black locks, her eyes were a deep hazel colour and her skin olive. She was a sight to behold. Dressed formally and with the typical vest and shirt combo one where used to seeing in classy bars, but with a added frills and a high collar. She wore the aforementioned crown of thorns with pride, it emanated off her like a lion showing his mane to potential threats. She was not a lion however, she was more of a den mother with cubs. Her eyes fastened on the Sin Eater and sent Mags a quick glance. Mags smiled back, earning a quirk of Rositas eyebrow. Megs had very nasty habit of stringing men along all night before turning them down cold. This usually led to people drowning their sorrows at the bar.* Good for buisness, bad for the soul.

But back to entrences. If the first two had been to not attract the attention of others. The one to follow them had been the opposite, straight up retarded. . And so it was, that the infamous Johan Hök came flying inside swearing, shoving a poor, rather frail looking magician aside as he did. Johan, tall and with a body type that was just the kind of slender that looks like the mixture of nasty habits and actual working out, swore like a sailor.*

Johan was, not the worst human being in the barista, but he was probably pretty far down in the barrel.. He had picked fights with enough people to start a world war right here and now. He had a past that spoke for itself. So why was it that Rosita grinned widely as he sat down? The first reason would be money, as Johan immidietly ordered no less then 4 shots of vodka. The other reason would be that despite what people said, Rosita knew this man. Johan was a pained man, and his asocial self destructive behavior was one of guilt. So the den mother leaned in and slid the first shot over.*

“I take it you got the message aswell, eh Mr Grumpy” Rosita said with the widest of grins. One might even dare to call it the grin of someone who ate something entirely unsanitary. Rosita loved poking fun at the angry. And none were more bitter and angry then Mr Hök.

“I did. And I got the goddamn nightmare as well. It is almost as bad as my regular ones.” The swedes eyes were red shot to the point where it looked like sleep was a rare commodity. Blue eyes stared at the other clientele. The attention given the rune priest was near acidic, he could feel Hon-Gjis eyes, the Necromancer having gone so far to threaten him with death when Johan first came to L.A. It had to do with the carved in rune on his back, nobody liked having a magical beacon walking around unchecked.. Johan looked at Rosita. “And my normal nightmares are pretty damn bad.”

“Poor soul. Want me to comfort you” Rosita spoke with a tone that was poison more then honey. A age old game of cat and mouse. Or cat and bird in Höks case. His name did mean hawk in his native tongue. Two predetors, eye to eye.

“And get pricked my your thorns? Please Rosita, you are a lovely woman. Bur you're also a gigantic murderous cougar in sheeps clothing. That and I know you don't go.. for my kind. Or gender for that matter.”*

Rosita just chuckled and went to check on other customers. Score one the Swedish Alchol. Score two hundred and something to the general female populace. Johan glanced towards he the Sin Eater. Something about him suddenly flared his intrest, he knew what he was.Johan had met one one before, that Sin Eater had refused to ease the burdens of his horrible sins. He was to grab the man by the collar when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to stare at the biggest man he ever met. The man, wearing what seemed like a cheap Texas ranger knock off. That was if Chuck Norris had been black, and with a goatee. Also he would have to have been at least 6'5 tall. The giant shook his head as Johan tried to protest.*

“I think you need to settle down Johan. And try not not hassle the other people.” The man spoke in deepest baritone. Johan gave the giant of a man a quick. The sheer size of the mans hands intimidated him.

"Fine" Johan shrugged of the hand and downed a shot. He let the alcohol relax his tense muscles. “Sorry Liam. I get... antsy without sleep.”

[Vhien]

The loc'd up beauty had only been to the Red Room Barista a few times, mostly when her father brought her along to help her network some. Regardless, it had been a while and the place still held its allure. If only Andromeda were coming here under different circumstances -- the kind of circumstances which didn't involve sinister visions.

She shuffled in through the door, with her hands in the pockets of her jeans and a slick smile on her face. Andromeda was slow with her entrance, but she was consistent and mindful, surveying the other bar patrons from the threshold. It seems that immediately before her own entrance, someone else had made a lively entrance. His appearance was rugged and he walked with such zeal to the bar, that Andromeda quickly perceived him for a drunkard. But if he was here, at least she knew he had some magical affinity.

Even though she entered subtly, Andromeda couldn't help to admit that she hoped at least someone would comment on how cute she looked. She had her knotty locs tied back, her best blue jeans, her black motorcycle boots and motorcyle jacket and everything - she thought she looked cute at least. The only thing clashing with her attire was the giant gold chain wrapped around her waist like a belt, with a trident hanging at the end of it on her side. Even without the fanfare she expected, a few heads did turn as she entered the room, but it seemed that only the nervous types whipped their heads around. If any real attention was geared in her direction, it was because of the high quality magical item around her waist, not her 'cute' attire.

Andromeda scanned the room, looking for vacant chairs or barstools that she could move around. As one individual rose to order himself another drink, Andromeda pulled the chair slowly near herself and carried it off to another part of the room. Without a moment's hesitation, she placed the chair beside that of another black individual. His top hat and white suit made him stand out amongst the other magicians. At that particular table, two other well-dressed individuals were engaged in conversation and the third man, Baron, only focused on what they said. Andromeda was not unaware of the magical clout these three held over her and probably everyone else in the room, but then again, she would maybe never get a chance to sit near Baron, Hon-Gji, or Gwendelyn in her lifetime or any other lifetimes.

The waiters and waitresses tending to that table only shot Andromeda a sideways glance or a look of confusion, but nobody spoke a word. Andromeda herself only stared at Baron, admiring his attire and posture. It wasn't until the main with the red shades slowly turned his head to Andromeda that Baron even halfway looked at her. His expression was calm as he turned his head only, but the atmosphere was tense and any sensible person would realize that they were unwanted.

With one hand, she held on to her trident's chain -- a nervous habit of hers, but with her free hand, Andromeda extended her hand to Baron and addresed the table. "Sorry to interupt, I'm Andromeda. Andromeda Burton. I'm Antoine Burton's daughter, the scholar." After managing the formalities of invading the space of such individuals, she turned her attention again to Baron Samedi and kept her hand extended, "And you are, Baron, yes brotha?" No sass or sly smirk on her face as she spoke, just earnest confidence as she addressed such influential folks.
"I be baron girl, you are correct. You have some guts, walking up to mah table like 'dat" He spoke, a heavy Carribean accent making each word two octaves lower then it might have been. "But you best be on your way. These two, do not like your company as much as I." The baron grinned. Gwendolyn didn't even look her way and Hon-Gji smiled.

Andromeda responded in kind with a wide grin and a slight extension of the tongue. "I can't see why they'd not like my company, especially that handsome fellow over there." Andromeda shot a sideways glance to Hon-Gji, surveying the man's attire and particularly focusing on his grin. She could see why they called him 'The Maw', but there surely wasn't nothing wrong with being famed for your oral assets, right?

[Noxious]

The first few times she had had the dreams she had turned to the cards, and the bottle. Normally the bottle helped drown out distractions and gave her a more wild and ranged perception, but it did nothing to quiet the dreams. Days passed as she attempted to pull a message from the cards but that message was foggy and unsure. She’d begun to grow accustomed to the demon crawling about in her head when finally she fell into a sort of coma; one screaming of alcohol abuse and lack of sleep. It was then that she had felt that the dream was laced with a wicked and pure connection to others. If it wasn’t for the man, the man that consistently distracted and tugged at her focus, she felt she could venture closer to the others, those that were sharing the dream; almost see their faces. It was no doubt this notion that left her with little surprise when the message had arrived, though the form of the message was entirely out of her realm of assumptions. Never before had the arcane purity really pulsed inside of her. It wasn’t directions, it wasn’t a map, it was the knowledge of a magnet that tugged the power inside of her, as if she could sense the well of power that was amassing.

She had not been able to grasp the journey she was taking on, there would have been little point in worrying over the inevitable, and so she had not. She had simply looked across the kitchen table at her mother, her mother who had been struggling to progress Varvara’s knowledge while the ineluctable loomed within the tales of the dream, and her mother understood. That night a fire raged in the countryside of Russia and the gypsies danced and laughed and she let herself forget about the dream and the magic and she kissed them all goodbye, some more provocatively than the others. It would be her first time away from her people. It would be her first time outside of the power of Russia, a power that her people had always felt brought them inner strength, and so she slept by the fire that night, curling close to the land and waking early with that same sense of dread that she always had when the dream found her.

Her mother attempted to offer her advice about wherever she might be going, but considering neither knew where that may be, nor did either know what it was like to leave, the advice was vague and continually shifted to affirmations of the power within. Along with words her mother handed her a well sewn bag; large enough for 2 days of food, water, 2 changes of clothes and what little money they could spare. The gypsy was resourceful, so really, she didn’t need much. And so thus her adventure had begun. Varvara, while of a genuinely pure and righteous mindset, traveled mainly through the losses of others. She stole only to turn around and sell to the greedy neighbors, she seduced men and women alike to patron her travel expenses until she found herself in L.A. staring up and down streets at the people whom subconsciously ignored making eye contact. It had always been that way, unless she wanted the attention, and then she also possessed the ability to curl those lips and hips and draw them to her like moths to the flame. This was usually true of even the least magically inclined of her people. The attention was unnecessary and now that she had found the city she was walking, focusing, without much care for her surroundings. She had decided quickly that she did not care much for America, or Americans; but once she found herself in L.A. this feeling had solidified like a rock in her temple.

The twitches of magic were the only thing that admonished the scowl the city brought to her features and so she continued walking with only the bag –practically empty- down the streets. This is how she found herself staring across the street at the odd building, the pulsing entity amongst the brave palm trees that dared compete with the pavement. It would be hard to say if she was nervous or calculating, though very rarely would you assume one of her descent was anything but confident.

And so she took one step off of the curb only to have a car screech to a stop literally tapping her knees. Her head snapped to the side and she began cursing in a broken Russian the –almost- resembled an actual curse, though she wouldn’t dare waste the consequences on the poor man who flushed nervously behind the steering wheel. She slammed her little fist with quite some force onto his hood, the many metal bracelets and rings clinking on the perfected paint job and leaving little doubt over whether or not they would scratch. Then as she took notice of the hood ornament she giggled for there was no way this man was anything like the jaguar that leaped out at her. Her giggle seemed to baffle the man even more and his skin sunk to an even lighter shade of pale before he reversed and pulled around her. Her vision followed the escaping car until she was again locked on to the building and she remembered the task at hand. It seemed now that she was so close she could appreciate the excitement of meeting others like herself and she practically frolicked to the door.

While she would not create the entrance of a large belligerent man, really that would require quite a feat, she also would not attempt at keeping to the silence. She jingled, or rather the pound or so of assorted jewelry decorating her body did, and the neatly kept dreadlocks swayed against her back as she made her way towards the bar. She leaned against it on her elbows as her eyes glanced over those in the room, an unwavering smile gracing her lips. She didn’t know any of the people, how would she? She didn’t know of their reputations, all she could do was read the people’s behaviors, and attempt to flit across their auras to assess their strengths, and weaknesses. It was all very vague and slightly overwhelming, so she turned towards the barmaids and with an accent, not so thick as you may presume, she spoke with an excitement that added a sing song tone to her words, ”Whatever you would recommend, as long as it it’s strong.” She offered a wink with her words and settled down into one of the stools. It was almost as if she was in a normal bar, for no other reason than to socialize, and she almost let herself forget why they were all here.

[inDefiance]

What a fucking douche.

Sure Rosalie did light up a smoke inside an establishment where smoking was not permitted, however, at least she did not act up like fucktard buddy over there. Yes, she knew what it was like to be a strung out junkie, and buddy over there was probably not a crack-head, but he could use a couple shots of 'Calm-The-Fuck-Down' and a hit or two of 'Seriously. Calm-The-Fuck-Down.' And as if on cue, he did ease up after downing a couple of shots and not to mention a bit assistance by some flexed muscle of his big buddy Cowboy Black the Ass-Kicker.

Now she really did feel like ordering a drink for herself as the chaos of that unseen and unheard beyond the Threshold began to buzz and bubble with the showy walk on from buddy over there. Her left hand began to play with the Zippo; yes, a smoke perhaps would help take off the edge. Rosi did not want to miss out on the action here, but some fresh air and a stick of lung cancer would help ease the tension in her shoulders and incessant nattering in her head. First off, she needed to peel her eyes off the hypnotic motions of the shapely ass moving in time to sleek flirtation and bold attitude of the woman with the giant fork on her lovely hips.

'Yeah, I know I do too but...' said Rosalie into the air in her dreamy voiced murmur, 'bloody hell, I know that I just cannot get it to move like that-- Fuck no! Grinder... bitch, I am not asking her to make it dance for me--'

“Excuse me, miss...” said a soft, husky, yet polite voice owned by a petite little sandy-headed thing complete with bushy brown eyes, lush-tasting lips, and an exotic little body packaged in tight shorts and an even tighter top.

Rosi was able to peel her eyes away from the rhythmic swaying of ass and, with her mouth slightly agape, she could not help but lock her baby-blues upon the little goddess with the crown of thorns wrapped around her sexy little head. Her pupils dilated and her heartbeat sped up a bit in heated anticipation. The reaction of her Three was the exact opposite. They wanted their powder-blue headed vessel to have no part of this 'little goddess.' At all.

But still, Rosalie pressed on. She was supposed to be no one here. But a little flirting would not hurt, right? A throbbing desire squelched the protests of her Three.

"Umm... yeah? But no need to call me 'miss,' miss. Haha... Name's Rosalie. What's your name, sexy lady?" Yeah. Oh soooo smooth. Nice one, Rosi. Okay. Who's acting like the fucktard now, buddy...? was Rosi's thought chasing her twinkly eyed response to the other woman.

A teasing giggle, so plump with sweetness like a marshmellow near flame, sounded out and Rosi felt her good parts heat up. “Mags,” said the owner of the intoxicating aura, “but my real name is tattooed somewhere on me... you'd have to search my entire body to find it.... hahaha... you wanna' try to find it? I'll show you mine if you show me yours...”

Lids fluttered closed over blue eyes, capturing them and inserted into her view was a vision obscured by rising waves of heat. Candles. Dripping water. Dancing shadows. Soft humming. Burning savoury incense. Splashing. A wet black nail-polished hand without the striped gloves on slowly reaching out. The beating of hearts. The spine-tingling feel of sliding that milky white hand down the skin of a tanned side, slowly tracing the curve of a hip. Slowing down. Slipping down. Searching for more than just a tattooed name on the outside of a body. A flash of white teeth nipping at the pink lips of the owner of hot, shaky breath. A giggle. Oh that fucking giggle. The giggle taking over a mouth, ingesting the inward gasp as a hand reciprocated in kind the slowing, sliding, slipping search for a name. Her name. Oh that fucking giggle. A tongue caressing another tongue, firm, lustful and thrusting as it searched for her name. Searching for 'She-Wh--

The screech of an Owl. Black rending talons shredding away the vision like a razor through tissue.

Rosalie Rouge's eyes snapped open.

Mags was standing there, with that sweet smile still plastered to her face, yet her eyes loomed large, jilted like a lover, or more fitting: like a thief who almost pulled off a huge heist. Rosalie tilted her head, a wry smile holding at her lips, eyes glinting with the reflection of an unseen moon. Holy shit, this little trollop almost got her. Fuckin' hell, if it was not for Seeker...

“So can I get you something, hun?” said Mags as if nothing happened.

“Yeah, you can...” said Rosi as she pressed her knees together, still reeling from the intensity of the vision, “...a stiff cock, 'hun.' Fuck you, you leeching dyke...”

That giggle, no longer potent to Rosi, bubbled up from Mags throat, “Okay, why don't you go change your kitty litter, and when you come back, maybe it would be in your best interests to give something up to the house, maybe even buy something, 'She...'”

“Don't call me that,” Rosi grumbled and slid down from the bar stool, slinging her pack over one shoulder, “gonna' go powder my nose then. And here, here's a little something for you before I go, Mags,”

A solid upward chin bob did she give the seductress along with a healthy middle finger flip from both hands.

“Oh, Rosalie,” giggled Mags as she watched her flee, “another place, another time and I'm sure I could find a couple of places for you to tuck those... see you in a bit, 'She...'”

---

Rosalie kicked the bathroom stall door open. Fucking hell, she got played like a noob and almost gave up her ?True name, fuckin' hell it was close.

'Yeah, I know, I know...' was the grumbling dreamy response into the air as she secured the slide bolt into place, 'I owe you again, Seeker. Fuck. Me. Why didn't any of you warn me...? Yeah, well, speak up louder next time...!

Seriously... Weaver! How the fuck did she get me into the Threshold? Ah see! I knew it! I don't owe you nothing, Seeker! No I don't! No, first of all, when we walked in here, you were supposed to cut us off. You see any trinkets out? Rattles, oils, reagents, drums-- Heyheyhey! Whoa! You stay out of this, Grinder!

Fuckin' hell, girl! You gots nothing to say to me about that! You fucked up, Grinder, and now we are in the shits with the Quezacotls, bitch! No. It will not appease Jefaza. The returning of the mask was for Seeker! The both of you agreed! Nonono... keep me out of this. Whatever. What-fuckin'-ever, you two! We gots beef with both clans now. What? Is that a joke? Who gives a fuck if I'm Canadian, girl?! You think Jefaza gives two shits about mortal geography? What you did goes into the Netherworld. Yes, it does. Did you really have to piss on their mask? Oh really. What tribe, Grinder? You are a fuckin' Lone She-Wolf! Whose honour are you protecting? I knew it! I fuckin' knew it! You are still hung up over that totem pole shit. Well whatever. I'm the fuckin' vessel, girl. You are with me now.

Okay so I fuckin' hate them too. That's why I let you mouth off to that clerk. And you see how she was all like: “ooooh... look at the emo-bitch whitey... I'm too good to address its dyke presence. Oooooh...” Who the fuck did she think she was sealing a bargain with-- Wait. Holy shit, Seeker! Fuckin' genius. You sure there's one in the bar? Fuck me twice, that's fantastic. Now we just need to find out where the mask is being shipped and if it crosses the other clan's territory. But first we need a little something from a little friend...'

Rosalie was mumbling out loud the whole time she was in the restroom. If anyone gave her a look or made a comment, she did not even bat an eyelash. There were times when she needed to 'air it out' with her three. Maybe some could even understand her speech, but she did not care for if they did they probably knew what kind of shit Rosi was in and would just stay the hell away from it.

After washing up, she sauntered out the door and ran promptly into Mags as the bartender accidentally on purpose found herself outside the woman's restroom.

“Hey She, are you all ready to—”

Without a second thought, the blue-haired woman bull-rushed into the smaller female and slammed her up against the wall. Mags' thorn crowned head bounced off the blood red drywall, disturbing the rather disturbing prints and paintings hung on either side of her head and sending her curls flowering about her face. Rosi held the woman by her wrists and pinned them up high. And before the wide-eyed giggling temptress could react, Rosalie Rouge, forced her way into Mags mouth. A moment of shock then a deep reciprocation did Mags give as she pressed back into the kiss.

“That means I'm sorry for being such a bitch out there...” said Rosalie, her raspy voice gentle like sea-breeze at dawn as she wiped her lips and chin with a gloved back hand, “...here. This is for your house. We all good, Mags?”

The shorter woman stared back into those baby-blues as she coyly bit her lower lip as she reached for the strange dark feather with a rainbow sheen. Suddenly the hallway grew a bit dimmer, wispy strands out from the shadows danced around them. The tanned slender hand grasped it and giggled, “Why Rosalie, thank you. I'll take this... it's so soft and tickly... maybe we can find out later just how tickly it really is in the right hands...? And in the right places...”

'Then I accept yours,' Rosi said quickly in her dream-laden voice as she pulled Mags in roughly and gently stroked the back of her head. Then in her normal sandy voice: “Yeah, I'll be back for you... I have something I really need for those lips to do for me, y'know...”

Mags giggled as Rosalie stroked her cheek. As the shorter female waked back in through the opening to the kitchen, Rosi crouched down low, and picked up something that accidentally on purpose fell on the black carpeted runner. She inspected the lost little thorn that she had exchanged for a Quezacotl feather as she made her way out to the patio for a smoke. 'Yeah, I know, but it is so worth the risk. Oh, c'mon. No. I'm just playing her... she's so not my type. And I'm sure when it all comes down, getting together will be the furthest thing from her mind...'

[Hellis]

There was a lot of things going around him at once. And didn't he know it but there was a women at the source of every disturbance. Mags flirting had him almost spit his drink. He knew the woman was forward, but that blue haired girl seemed to strike her fancy something good. He rarely saw Mags do anything aside from the usual stringing a man along. He knew that their contract made relationships with men very... risky. The Queen of thorn did not take lightly to male lovers. But Mags, Mags was a really nasty woman. Far from Rositas graceful motherly nature, she could have you on your knees and begging from sheer blue balls. An emotional sadist of such proportions it scared even Johan. When he saw the exchange go sour his eyes went dark. The icy blue stare of him was something even Rosita backed from. Someone like him held power wherever he walked, the scars on his back still held power and the small rune pebbles in his pouch hummed.

“You need to keep a leash on Mags” He spoke. Both Rosita and the bouncer eyed him. They knew the voice. It was the same voice had spoken with when he had staggered inside with a dead snake in his hands and dragging a dead shaman in the other. That had been 2 years ago. Someone had felt their turf needed expanding, and tried to throw a hex on Johans house. His retort had been to carve in the rune for weakness on the the Shamans fetish. Johan Hök the Winterchild was really cold-blooded when it came to conflict. Its one of the reasons Hon-Gji had approached him. Then Korean born necromancer knew trouble when he saw it, and eating a arcane imbued mans heart had been high up on his menu aswell. Luckily for Johan, he had offered up something else, a troll heart, and Hon-Gji had felt amazing from absorbing its power.

The Swedish man rose, his eyes fasted on the Afro-American lady who had entered, and who dared to speak with the Baron. She had guts, or perhaps she lacked common understanding of the norms in here. Either way, her little escapade had made the Baron smile, so that was impressive. He pondered if he should strike up a conversation with Hon, just to see if he survived. He didn't thou, his eyes followed something far more interesting, The girl with Mags, had just pulled a fast one. And he was amused. So taking up a pack of cigarettes himself and heading out he formulated a plan. But t not before stealing a glance of the Roma beauty that entered. His weathered face shone with a bright smile and as he passed, he spoke to her in broken Roma.

“<Well met traveller. Welcome to the land, enjoy it's bounty and prizes.>” He was in no means versed in the language, but Baltic Roma were a common sight in Scandinavia. And he had shared their fires for a extended period of time when his carved in rune was healing up- Romans were tied to the earth, and served well as anchors for his raw power. So he had learned a few phrases.

As he stepped outside he tookout a smoke and lit it quickly standing next to the shape shifter.

“Carefull around the Queens subjects girl. I am not sure what you picked up. But if its what I think it is, you need to steer clear of thorn bushes for some time. Mag plays people, but she is a sore looser.” He grinned as he said it, eying her trough half lidded eyes. He wasn't sure what she was, from the feel it felt much like a shaman would. But there was more then one presence. A host perhaps? Oh he hated spirit hosts. Hard to read, harder to get along with. He took another drag of the cigarette. Drawing a quick rune for wisdom with the cigarette cherry in the air. The air around them shivered with arcane power for a second. A warning to who ever may try to eavesdrop.

“Dont worry. I wont get in your way. “ He added before she had any chance to protest. “I am quite amused by the whole thing.”

He took a drag, and the steely blue that was his eyes fixated on her eyes. And if she had any kind of perception, she would see the wild tangled knots of imprisoned arcane energy within in him. “Well shit. Theres a spider inside you isn't it” His guess might seem weirdly on target, and very sudden. But for a man who killed a snake spirit once, he had his fair amount of experiences with animal spirits. He fondly remembered getting mauled by a bear on his trip to Kansas 2 years ago. The reason he guessed there was a spider involved, was the silence. Spiders waited, they were patient hunters who spun webs.

[Noxious]

She had turned from the drink that was being placed in front of her to look at the man that was oddly reminiscent of home; though perhaps she was just thankful he wasn’t American and that he seemed to at least have some intelligence of her people. It was apparent in just seconds that he was nothing like her people. Capable, yes, foreign, but, he definitely wasn’t right and he was much larger than the men she was used to.

But it is hard to break habits, even in a place like this so she had flashed him that well practiced bedroom smile as he passed, making sure that her hip rubbed briefly against his, her hand slipping into his pocket. While she had easily mastered the art of flirting, she had a doctorate in the art of pick pocketing. It helped that she usually put magic behind her stare, her eyes calling out to the person to momentarily forget all else besides those blue eyes that seemed to quiver beneath long lashes. It only took a second for her to pull this off, and usually it was flawless; her fingertips contained a tarot card, randomly selected, that would counter the weight she removed from him in cash. She dared not take anything of magical importance from these people, not yet, not until she knew where there allegiances would lie. She said nothing to him though and once he had made it past her a ways she turned towards the bar.

Behind the bar stood Evelyn, who had been kind enough to bring her a drink of unknown concoction and had been curious enough to stay and watch the exchange, or rather, the theft that had just taken place. Varvara immediately knew that the woman was aware, for Evelyn didn’t hide the raised brow and crossed arms that faced the little gypsy. Varvara smiled, attempting to make it look sweet and nervous with a timid bite of the silver ring that wrapped around her lip. She wandered if the magic world held similar guidelines and binds about stealing from ‘your own’, and for just a brief second she looked nervous. But quickly it was obvious that Evelyn wasn’t at all put out by the girl’s actions. She started laughing and poured an extra shot for both herself and the gypsy, each holding theirs up in toast before also clinking them upon the bar top to include the grounds in the cheers. They both downed the shots quickly, easily, and the gypsy’s smile returned to the one of new found excitement.

“Varvara.”
“Evelyn.”
“It’s a pleasure.”
”I’m sure… Forgive me if I don’t shake.”

The waitress’ eyebrows seemed to denote the joke was only half serious, she would probably touch the girl if prompted, but she sure as hell wouldn’t let the gypsy ‘bump’ into her without immediately searching her pockets.

Varvara glanced down at the money she had retrieved from Johan and while she wasn’t entirely sure the denominations of American dollars the “10” that looked back at her didn’t seem too much and so she shrugged her shoulders and tossed it across the bar to Evelyn and picked up her drink to take a sip before the woman could snatch it away in disgust. With the drink firmly in hand, straw still tucked against a lip she spoke, ”Sorry, it’s all I….errr….he had.”

Evelyn accepted the money, knowing the girl could easily acquire more, but then she leaned over the bar as if to pull the girl into the circle of confidence and slid the 10 dollars back towards her. ”Don’t you worry about it darling, I’m sure that you’ll be able to pay me back in full by the end of the night. If not, girl like you, you’ll find someone to take the tab off of your hands.” With that Evelyn departed and the little Russian took another sip of the drink that she now recognized as a greyhound. Odd choice, she liked it though and she was pretty sure she liked the one called Evelyn. She continued to sip from the slowly and steadily as she spun on the barstool to again take note of the people around her. Without looking she reached behind her on the bar and grabbed the 10 dollars, slipping it down the front of a corset styled shirt and between two adequate breasts, out of sight in plain sight.

[custoscustodum]

“Here you go, stranger,” Rosita said cheerfully, handing him a small, elegant tumbler containing a clear, colourless liquid. “Something from London,” she said. “To make you feel a little more at home.”

Whether sincere or not, it was a pleasant gesture, regardless of the fact that the country of his birth had not been somewhere the sin-eater had called home for a very long time.

“Thank you,” he answered, raising his glass, but the bartender shook her head, sending her black locks bobbing slightly around her face, and interrupting Daniel before he could say anything else.

“Before you get all misty-eyed on me, let me give it to you straight: the bad news is there’s no smoking in here; the good news is you can do it outside, over there,” Rosita explained, pointing, and then smiled.

“But why don’t you stay here a while? The bottle’s just as good a place to wallow in your sins as the cigarette, right?” In the bustle of the Red Room, Daniel couldn’t be absolutely certain, but he thought Rosita winked at him. And had she intonated sins somewhat unnaturally? He couldn’t be sure, and ultimately, he thought, it didn’t matter – someone had invited him there, after all, so someone obviously knew what he was, but he hoped they hadn’t been advertising his talents too broadly: his experience of magic users (himself included), was that they were not the most morally upright members of the rational community; worse than the sinners, though, were the power-crazed individuals who had long since crossed the boundaries of responsible magic use and who would salivate at the prospect of his being able to help them in their deranged endeavours.

Right on cue, Johan burst into the room. Daniel watched him heading towards the bar and decided to take that smoke after all. He gulped back his gin – Beefeater, perhaps? – grimaced slightly, and then deftly produced a cigarette from somewhere inside his coat, nestling it in the left corner of his mouth in preparation to be lit when he got outside. The sin-eater reached into his pocket and put down the correct change for the drink on the bar, and was about to get up when Rosita interrupted him for a second time.

“Stay where you are, stranger: you’ve got front row seats for the show. This one’s borderline certifiable,” she added, nodding at Johan, who, just out of earshot, was greeted by the bartender when he sat down and ordered his drinks. Against his better judgement, Daniel decided to stay where he was. He left the unlit cigarette dangling precariously from his mouth and waited.

All in all, he was a little disappointed – from Rosita’s description, he’d been expecting more fireworks – that is until Johan finally noticed the sin-eater, and a flash of emotion danced in the Swede's eyes. It didn’t stay there long, but Daniel was grateful for the bouncer’s presence: he’d seen that look a few times before, in the eyes of the truly desperate and forsaken who saw a path to salvation through him.

Externally, Daniel didn’t react except to the give the man a, by his standards at any rate, rather half-hearted glare before ordering another drink and turning round on his bar stool, glass in hand, to take in more of the room.

The sin-eater watched with disgust, conflicted desire, considerable interest, and even amusement, though not necessarily in that order, as a girl had the gall to march up to the head table, as a bartender stuck her tongue in a blue-haired woman’s mouth, and as a newly-arrived gypsy both stole 10 dollars from the abrasive Swede and obtained a drink on credit from a different bartender.

By this time, Daniel had finished his second double. The alcohol was working its way through his bloodstream and he was beginning to feel the first flush of its comforting effects. After a brief rummage in a coat pocket, he produced a 10 dollar bill and put it down carefully on the bar in front of Varvara, whose name he’d overheard her give to Evelyn. He paused briefly, bony fingers lingering on the bill, as if considering whether to withdraw the money.

“For the drink,” he said eventually, cigarette wagging. He looked the young woman in the eye, with an expression of extreme seriousness on his face, as if he were conducting business of the utmost importance. If he was trying to hit on her, he was going about it very strangely.

“I’m not flirting with you,” Daniel went on matter-of-factly, inviting the question of what on earth he was doing. “But you really should try not to get yourself indebted to anyone,” at this point he leaned closer so that he could lower his voice to a whisper, “and especially not to these people.”

The sin-eater drew back, but continued to look at Varvara. Who exactly he was referring to was not entirely clear, nor why he should get so worked up over a tab the size of one drink. His blue eyes gave nothing away.